No More "At Least" By: Sarah

When John and I were first married I insisted on a fresh Christmas tree.  I loved the fresh tree smell: being at the tree lot, standing out in that dark snowy night air, holding up each one in search of the perfect shape, bartering with the sketchy tree salesman like you would a car salesmen. Real trees are tradition.  Real trees create family memories.  No fakes for my family. 

But then the real tree thing became a huge stressor.  Paying out 50$ or more during the Christmas season became one more strain on our already taut budget.  Once we got it home dry needles were strewn throughout the house as we struggled to heave the beast through the tiny doorframe, then we had to string lights on those sharp, sappy, branches for HOURS while the kids could only sit and watch eventually losing interest and disappearing to their rooms.   All of this caused some (ahem) serious discussions between my spouse and I, as he was not nearly as committed to the real tree experience as I was.

After a few years I finally relented and we purchased a fraudulent, fake, artificial tree.  While I didn’t want to admit it, it was really nice to “open the box and put up the tree” and for the first few years I told myself, “Well, at least we have a tree.” And I thought I was being positive.

This past year our youth group went canoeing.  One of the young men was having serious anxiety about getting into the boat.  Like a for real anxiety attack.  He finally got himself into the boat and then started to panic so he returned to shore after a very short time.  When he got out of the boat he said, “I hate that I am this way.”    Then he said, disappointed, “At least I got in the boat.”  

The sound of that phrase rang in my ears as if he had given himself a sharp backhand before complimenting himself.  And ever since, the sting of my own “at least” has wounded me over and over again.

Panic and Anxiety have plagued me since the moment I saw sweet little Miles in the water.   One benchmark for healing I set for myself was taking my kids swimming.  I would go to the local rec center and stand by the glass doors and watch other children swimming and I’d get that familiar feeling of foreboding, the sinking in my chest, the racing heartbeat, and my arms would start to go numb down to my fingers and I’d know that a panic attack was working its way out.And I’d leave.  I’d sit in the car, frustrated with my inability to control the physical reaction that came no matter how firmly I told myself everything was okay.  I’d say, “Well, at least I tried.”  Recognizing the attempt.  Acknowledging my failure. 

After a few months of this I was finally in the water with my kids.  I’d stand in the water neurotically opening and closing my fists fighting backs tears and fighting the urge to pull every kid out of the water who stayed under water for more than 5 seconds.   And I’d say to myself, “I hate that I’m like this.”  And then I’d say to myself, “ At least I’m here.”

I watched my kids one day, amazed at their resilience: splashing, laughing, enjoying themselves with no fear.  And I internally celebrated their achievement.  With no strings attached.  I thanked God that they were able to get back in the water. 

Then I realized the damage “At Least” was doing to me and instead of saying, “At least I am here.”  I said, “I am here.  After everything I have been through, I am here.”

And it felt like a cleansing breath of fresh air.

Try it.  Take your most often said “at least” phrase and lose the “at least”.

“At least I did the dishes.”

“At least I made dinner.”

“At least I showered today.”

“At least My husband loves me.”

“At least I didn’t yell at the kids today.”

“At least My family knows I love them.”

It feels like a completely new message and it feels really good.

Driving Bus By: Jenny

I used to drive a 'bus' (a large van) for a small elementary school. It's a private school and there are a little more than 30 students that go there. Many of the children that go to this school  come from a home where addictions to drugs, alcohol or gambling are very common. The children would all talk to each other in the mornings or in the afternoons as I drove them to their destinations. They would share stories about the chaos at home: family members in and out of jail, violent arguments, teenage siblings having babies, court dates, or late night parties. My heart would break for each of these kids as  I got to know them and their own personal story. They carried burdens that I have never had to carry. 

There was one particular second grader who seized my heart. He was spunky and feisty. He was curious and mouthy. He was usually in trouble and he made me laugh with his antics. He drove me crazy, but I grew to love this little man.

One morning he got on the 'bus' and confided to me in a voice that sounded much too grown up for a  seven year old, “My mom moved out of our house, Miss Jenny. She left because I'm so bad.” His mom had left his step-dad, his baby brother and him because....I don't know why. But she left. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

My eyes filled with tears, “Oh, honey. You're not a bad kid. That isn't why your mom left.” 

My tongue was unable to form the words of comfort that I wanted to convey. What words could I give to this little, tender, rejected second grader? You can't replace a mom with a bus driver. 

The weeks went on, he went back to being the zany, wild little kid, with a band aid plastered over his heart. After  a little more than a month, he got on the bus one morning and he chirped to me, “My mom is meeting me at my bus stop after school today, Miss Jenny!” It was the first time he would see his mom since she left.

My heart leaped and danced and cheered and I said, “That's great!”

That afternoon as we neared his stop, I looked into the rear view mirror. His forehead was pressed up to the window and he was chanting to himself, “Please be there. Please be there. Please be there. Please be there.”

We pulled into his stop. 

She. 

Wasn't. 

There. 

My chest felt like it was going to cave in, my eyeballs burned, my toes curled and grabbed at the bottom of my shoes and my stomach muscles tightened. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

“She's not here.” His voice was final, solemn, very matter of fact. 

Trying to be hopeful and optimistic, I said, “Maybe she's just running late. We can wait for her.” 

We both knew that wasn't true.

“No, Miss Jenny. She isn't coming.”

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

His shoulders slouched, he stared straight ahead trying to compose himself. The kindergartner sitting next to him timidly patted his shoulder, “It's okay. My parents lie to me all the time too.”

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

*****

In the book The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom, she shares an experience she had with her father when they were traveling on a train together:

“And so seated next to my father in the train compartment, I suddenly asked, "Father, what is sex sin?"
He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case off the floor and set it on the floor.
“Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?" he said.
I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning.
“It's too heavy," I said.
“Yes," he said, "and it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It's the same way, Corrie, with knowledge. Some knowledge is too heavy for children. When you are older and stronger, you can bear it. For now you must trust me to carry it for you.” 

*****

There I sat, watching this second grader, a boy, dragging a man-size suitcase of sorrow off the bus. He seemed to be pulling his leaden luggage behind him as he turned and said, “See you Monday, Miss Jenny.” 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Fortunately, this isn't the end of his story. Unfortunately, I don't know what the end of his story is. I am sure it is full of grace. I am sure it has tears and anger. I am sure there are tender mercies. I am sure there will be triumphs and failures.

I have had plenty of time to think of my little bus passenger and this experience (4 years). I still tear up when I think of his pleading and his little head pressed against the window. Honestly, I still don't have an answer. I can't explain why. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch

And so this is when I think of all that I do know. I do know Jesus Christ can carry our burdens. I know He does this, not out of obligation or duty, but because of His immense love for us. I know that there is an eternal plan, a perfect plan, His Plan. I know that I am a part of that plan. I know that my little man, my little second grader, whose tough exterior melted my heart has a part in His plan as well. Although I lack understanding, I know that all those hurts can be our strengths through the Atonement. 

I pray and think of my little man often. I pray for guardian angels to help him carry his luggage on his journey. 

During this holiday season, I challenge you to help someone burdened down with baggage. Please share it with us! How have you helped others with their luggage? How has someone helped you?

Beautiful Disaster By: Sarah

When I consider the life and death of Christ I have often tried to place myself in the shoes of those surrounding him.  If I had grown up next to him, would I have joined the crowd that threw him out of Nazareth when he announced his divinity?  Would I have followed, that very moment, if I were hard at work in the Sea of Galilee when Jesus called, “Come, follow me.”  

Would I have slept at the gates of Gethsemane as he bled from every pore?  

Christ at Gethsemane By Carl Heinrich Bloch

And when he was taken and crucified would I have believed that all he did was for naught?  Would I have thought that all was lost? 

I can only imagine the prayers of Mary the Mother of Christ.  I can only guess what Mary Magdalene’s heart spoke to God.  

The Pieta' By Michelangelo

I can only speculate at the pleading desires of the apostles, who loved their master deeply, when they saw Him, bloodied and beaten, carrying that cross up to Calvary.  

CHRIST ON THE ROAD TO CALVARY - GIOVANNI BATTISTA TIEPOLO

They must have begged for divine intervention.  They must have wondered if God had forgotten them.  They must have said, “This cannot be.  This cannot happen.”  And yet it did.  Why must have engulfed their minds day and night.

After Miles passed away I spent months in a fog, wondering why.  I had moments of clarity, when the depression would lift and I could feel the spirit speak to me and in one of these moments of clarity I wrote this:

It is as we rise from the most difficult and heartbreaking trials that we finally see, actually experience, that the Lord can make more out of us than we could ever make of ourselves.  If left to ourselves we would always avoid the deep valleys and briars and thorns.  We would never choose the heartbreak and the feelings of intense loss, so the Lord chooses them for us.  And as we fall we question, “Why this?”  “Why now?”  “Why me?” While the Lord keeps quietly, lovingly chanting, “Trust me.  Trust me.  Trust me.  This will be beautiful.”  And as you rise from the ashes of the fire you think, “I never knew I could FEEL like this.  I never knew I could love so deeply.  I never knew, Lord.”  And you are changed.  Eternally.  Not necessarily for the ‘happier’ but for the holier.  Which was the goal all along.

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone.  The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes.  To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.” –Cynthia Occelli

 

If the seed didn’t break open and destroy itself, it would never be anything but a seed.  But we weren’t made to only hold potential.  We were made to break open, grow, and become. 

God doesn’t hold us in his hands, commenting on what pretty seeds we are.  He nourishes us with love, blessings, and yes, adversity, and trials.

The fact of the matter remains:

Christ had to suffer to atone.  He had to die to be resurrected.  If the Greatest of All condescended to this, can we not expect a portion of the same for our own mortal existence? 

And if His vast suffering created mercy and His brutal death produced eternal life, then how can we not expect the product of our suffering to not have some portion of radiance, especially if we are His?

Perhaps, like those surrounding Christ during His mortal life, we are not in the middle of a disaster, but instead are witnessing ourselves being saved.

Man-Scaping By: Jaime

Carter and Mom

Carter (practicing his modeling)

Carter is my oldest, he’s 7.  My first baby,  my first true love (sorry, hunny).  When I was pregnant with him I was petrified of being a mother, well, being a terrible mother.  Truly I never thought I wanted kids, but I knew that when you grew up and got married, that was what you did.  I worried my entire pregnancy that I wouldn’t be able to bond with him, since I am sooooo not a kid person.  If you asked my mom what I thought about kids, she would tell you, “Jaime thinks they are smelly, sticky, runny nosed animals belonging in cages.”  Sadly, it’s true.  And, unlike my fantastic sister-in-law Jenny who loves peanut butter kisses…I do not!  

In the process of having Carter all crazy broke loose and I truly have no memory of either seeing or holding him until about day 3, when I was released from ICU back to post-partum. That was our first real night with him in the hospital and while I still felt no attachment to this child, I was all ready to be the best mom I could be and take care of this newborn.  Well, he cried…and cried, and cried, until we cried and asked the nursery to take him.  So, haven’t left the hospital yet and already a failure at mommy-hood.  We took him home, we struggled getting him to transition back to breast by putting a syringe feeding tube through a nipple shield and weaning him off gradually, but he did it!  Then the agony of breast feeding.  Again, he’d cry, then I’d cry…repeat process.  I started to realize that if I could sit there, tears pouring down my face in pain to let this teeny thing nurse, I must really be in this, ya know?  Then one day it happened.  The pain went away, and simultaneously Carter understood just what he was supposed to be doing.  LOVE!  I had never felt such incredible love so forcefully.  True love, and I have never looked back.  Don’t get me wrong, other people’s kids, still smelly and sticky.  But, with my own I just wipe their faces clean and steal my kisses.  Naturally, being the first born, poor Carter has been the test child for every possible avenue of life experience in our household, which leads me to how I have taken that sweet darling little baby boy and turned him into a Top Model, Project Runway, So you Think You Can Dance loving brainiac who talks back like nobody’s business.

Carter and his sister McKinley

The other day while getting the kids ready for school, I told Carter he needed to zip up his sweatshirt.  His response to this was, “Instead of zipping it, I could just flip it up like this (demonstrates) and turn it into a scarf, that way its more fashion forward.”  Whoa…what?!  Not sure how to respond to this other than giggle.  However Lincoln (the husband), did not giggle, but stared blamingly at me, while shaking his head.  

This was not the first of “interesting remarks” from Carter.  A few months back I overheard Carter and Nixon playing in the basement and Carter was trying to convince Nixon that they should play “Brother Husbands,” like that show Sister Wives that Mommy watches.  YES!  Okay, it is all my fault!  I have been told by many while witnessing his remarks, that I need to severely cut down on my reality tv watching, especially around the boy.  Pretty sure the show that truly needs to be cut out is America’s Next Top Model...While friends were over recently, Carter struck up a conversation with my BFF, Kacey, about “Man-scaping!”  For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it is simply the word for when a man does any type of hair removal other than facial.  Kacey looking shocked and horrified, none-the-less laughing came to me to talk to me about it, and I explained to her that in no more than one episode I heard these 3 comments…”Mom, why do the boys have to rip out all their hair?  Shouldn’t Daddy do that then?”  “Why are those 2 boys kissing?  Gross” and, “That girl used to be a boy?  Why would he wanna do that?”  

So, yes…while I am an idiot for not changing the channel, I would like to publicly thank Americas Next Top Model for helping to open ad nauseam cans of worms for me to discuss with my 7 year old.  Don’t get me wrong, these are topics I expect to discuss with him sometime which will I’m sure come too soon for any parent, and I will always love and respect the decisions Carter will make in his lifetime, I believe a serious change will need to be made on my behalf to help keep him my sweet little baby boy for as long as possible.  So, from here on out I pledge to turn the tv off when he enters, and tell him to go punch his brother and the go talk to Daddy about guns.

Carter (aka Harry Potter) decided to grow his hair long to donate to locks of love

Nature Vs. Nurture By: Jenny

I firmly believe it is my calling in life to try to perfect the art of shenanigans that my ancestors started. Generations of deception flow through my veins. I am dedicated to carrying on the traditions of trickery of those who came before me---for my posterity’s sake.

When James (now 16 years old) was younger, my husband, Jason, and I were out running errands. We realized that we would be getting home about 10 minutes after the bus dropped him off. We decided to call him on the phone to make sure he would be ok and to reassure him that we would be home soon. That is truly what my intentions were as I dialed the phone, but years of ingrained training kicked in.

James picked up the phone, and said in his sweet 2nd grade little boy voice, “Hello?” Trying to disguise my voice, I growled into the phone, “Is my goat on your roof?” There was a pause. “Ummm, uh….no,” James voice sounded hesitant. I rumbled into the phone, “I’ve lost my goat! I think it’s on your roof!” Another pause, James irresolute answer came slowly, “Ummmm….I don’t think so.” I sounded irritated as I said, “Can you at least go and check?” There was a moment of silence. “O.K. I’ll be back.” I heard some shuffling, and then his tentative voice, “There’s nothing on our roof.” I growled, “I thought for sure it was on your roof!” Gruffly I said, “Goodbye!”


As we drove into the driveway, I giggled the entire time, thinking about how to stretch out this prank. My husband, my comrade in parenting, was one step ahead of me. James was sitting on the couch watching T.V. and Jason asked, “James! What is a goat doing on our roof??!!”

What happened next is one of the proudest moments in my life. James turned and looked at me, realizing what had just happened and he said very calmly, “Mom. You. Are. Pathetic.”

What he didn’t understand is that this desire, this need, to ‘prank’ is beyond my control. It is the age-old debate of Nature VS Nurture. Years and years of predecessors in my family have cursed me with this: pretending wet dog food is fudge, bowls of water above the door, telling my sister that she was adopted (with my dad’s help of course! Or else it would have never been believable!), green food coloring in the milk, countless phone calls to Santa Clause, having a clown walk into my 8th graders school for his birthday, slowly shoving the tire pressure gauge up my nose (or so it appears), telling my kids that Aunt Sarah used to be Uncle Sarah, food coloring in chicken noodle soup (we were eating brains for dinner) and many other things that aren’t appropriate to share publicly. I blame all of this on my ancestors.

Other families pass down a propensity for courage, faith or skills that are actually useful. My family passes down whoopee cushions.

My family is chaotic, messy, outspoken, passionate, and flawed. We laugh until we snort, we cry on each other’s shoulders, and we share recipes. Think what you may, but I love my family and for all that they stand for: Joy. Oh, and goats.

Tantrums By: Sarah

 I love the boy who’s internal alarm wakes him at 6:00 am everyday of the week regardless of what time his head hit the pillow the night before.  I love how the first thing he does when he wakes up, is come to me to say, “Good morning!” and then crawl into my arms asking to, “snuggle”. 

Isaac is my most affectionate child.  He loves to rub noses, give kisses, and he asks me to reach my hand back to him in the car so he can hold it.

Sitting folding clothes or watching a movie or something else sedentary and I’ll find myself under siege.  Isaac will have jumped on me, grabbing my face, kissing me all over.  He is full to the brim with a love and excitement for life and his family.

Isaac also tantrums.  He might be the king of tantrumers (If that is even a word).  The same boy who asks if he can scratch my back “softly” was the culprit in this story:

Isaac’s teacher praised him when I picked him up from preschool.  He had a GREAT day.  So on the way to pick up the girls from school we stopped at 7eleven and I gifted him his own bag of Cheetos and a blue Slurpee.  He was in heaven.  When the girls saw his spoils they, of course, wanted their own due rewards and so on the way home, I stopped at a different 7eleven because... I am a HUGE PUSH OVER.  The plan originally was for all of us to enter the 7eleven TOGETHER while Isaac amiably watched the girls choose and purchase their own Slurpees, with complete understanding that he’d already enjoyed his. 

I don’t know what dream world I was living in, but that is NOT what happened.  Isaac felt completely jilted.  He began one of his epic tantrums, so I handed the girls a 5-dollar bill and coolly explained to Isaac that he was on time out in the car and would be allowed out when he was calm and could use a “soft voice” and “nice words”.  I shut the van door and stood outside to keep watch over him.  He soon climbed into the front seat and began honking the horn repeatedly.  I was still calm, but I could feel my cool starting to melt.  I opened the door explaining, firmly, that he had to stay in his car seat, buckled up.  He refused.  So I scooped him up, which was the catalyst to something very ugly.  He went into full on raging bull mode:  screaming, snorting, and flailing about.  My calm and collected demeanor went from “beginning to melt” to full on steaming mad.  As I struggled with the wild boy, somehow two of his Cheeto dust covered fingers each ended up fish hooked into my nostrils, and, having finally found a solid hold on me, Isaac dug those cheesy fingers in and wouldn’t let go.  Through gritted teeth and with a scary devil-like voice I *asked * him to release my nostrils and sit down.  I think he realized that while, perhaps he had won a very small battle, he had started a war he could never win simply based on body size ratio.  He sat down, defeated and crying and I turned around to see a police officer standing behind me, watching the whole scene play out. 

Shocked, I gave an anxious laugh, brushing my tousled hair out of my face.  I vacillated between giggling, “Oh this?  This is nothing.   Just a little game we play called... Cheeto Man vs. Devil Mom.” or diving in my van and speeding out of there yelling, “You’ll never catch me copper!”  I settled on a jumpy, “Oh!  Hello!”

      

I tried to inconspicuously brush the Cheeto powder from around my nostrils while simultaneously trying to recall what coercive threats I had murmured in the midst of the mêlée.

The officer looked at me and laughed, saying something about how he knows how Isaac feels and that he feels like he needs a time out every morning when his alarm goes off...blah, blah, blah.  I don’t really remember exactly what he said as I was more concerned about him thinking I had a Cheeto snorting habit that might need a night in the slammer to fix.   

My girls finally exited 7eleven with their Slurpees, as the officer entered and I tore out of that parking lot like a bat out of Hades!  (While still obeying every traffic law).

Could this be the same little boy who woke up with an “I love you” on his lips, full of hugs and kisses?

That night, at bedtime, Isaac had a really hard time settling down.  He cried and cried and wouldn’t stop.  I finally asked him what the problem was and he responded, “My heart feels sad.  I want my heart to feel happy.  Will you fix it?”

Sometimes I look at Isaac and I imagine what it would be like to only be able to remember him.  What would I remember?  What would I forget?  And then I have to stop because it hurts too much. 

The truth is, what makes Isaac amazing, tender, and lovable is the same stuff that makes him frustrating, difficult, and exasperating.  His vigor and love for life is all balled up with his tendency to become angry and fight vehemently for what he wants and thinks he needs. 

So full of contradiction.  So full of highs and lows.  All emotions are full throttle.  Love, hate, rage, glee.  And while I don’t enjoy every second of his very dynamic personality, I do love every bit of who he is.

And as his momma, maybe I need to just take a breath and enjoy it completely, set aside the scary devil voice (most of the time) and just breathe all of him in, Cheeto dust and all.

 

An Ode to Ridiculous Parenting Ideas & an Apology to Jared… By Jaime

So, I called my sister-in-law, Jenny, the other day to tell her that I had a confession to make, something I had been feeling very guilty about…I told her, that for the last 3 years or so I had been holding a grudge against her youngest son, Jared.  What kind of adult holds a grudge against an innocent child?  Me…terrible, I’m aware! 

You know, you hear all the time before you get married, that you have no idea how hard it will be, and the first thing that pops into your mind is, “Not my marriage.  We are so in love.  We talk about everything, and so it won’t be hard for us!”  WRONG!  And then, even before you start having kids, you look at other mothers or families or just the rotten kids and think to yourself, “Not me…I will never do it that way!  Never bribe them, never give in to their tantrum just to escape humiliation.  My kids will never act like that in the first place!”  You’re an instant parenting expert from the 2 times you baby sat as a teenager.  WRONG!!!  Why do we never listen to the experienced?  Good grief, I don’t know, but back to my apology, which after this, will also be in writing.

Family before McKinley

Okay, so 4 years ago when my husband, Lincoln, was graduating from nursing school, his family came up to watch him graduate and celebrate with us.  His mom and dad came, and his sister Sarah came, and she had in tow, her 3 young kids and had also brought with her sister's (Jenny) 5 year old son, Jared.  At the time, Lincoln and I had Carter who was 4 and Nixon age 2.  So, of course we were complete experts already when it came to raising children…WRONG!  We decided to go out to dinner before the ceremony, so we all piled into Texas Roadhouse for dinner, there we were also joined by Lincoln’s cousin’s wife, Tiffany and her son Jonas who was also only about 16 months old.  In case you’ve been counting, this was not enough adults for this amount of very small children!  But, we struggled through.  We had some time before the ceremony began, and since Linc’s school was right next to a beautiful park, we thought it would be great to let the kids get some energy out before wrangling them in.

Jared, in the infamous "Grandma's Sweater" after the ceremony.

After being at the park only a short time, I notice that Jared, my mother-in-law and Sarah had disappeared.  I’m starting to panic that we will not be able to round everyone up in time to make it to the ceremony.  Then, Sarah appears, looking angry, amused, and bewildered all at the same time.  She tells me that Jared has pooped his pants, like REALLY pooped his pants (non-salvageable) and her mom was still in the bathroom cleaning him up with paper towels and water, mind you, this is a park bathroom if you’re trying to picture it.  When they finally emerge, poor Grandma…Jared is wearing a diaper and Grandma’s sweater around his waist!  And, to top it all off, he appears to be finding this hilarious!  Not the pooping part, just the ensuing ensemble.  I lost my mind!  All internally of course, but seriously, I thought, “What kind of 5 year old poops his pants in public and the does not even care that he is wearing Grandma’s sweater and a diaper!  My kids would NEVER do this!”  WRONG!

Dad, Nixon, Mom

So, fast forward past the stares we all received at graduation and it is now 4 years later, my kids are now 7, 5 and we have a 10 month old little girl named McKinley.  Nixon has begun Kindergarten and is loving it!  We knew his kindergarten transition would not be as easy as Carter’s, as he is NOT Carter.  Let’s just say, it has been poop filled, and I don’t really love dealing with poop!  He pooped his pants at Carters soccer practice, like filled his shoes with poop…I had to clean up a trail of poop from where we were sitting to the van, so that the other kids would not be stepping in my 5 year old sons poop! As I stooped to pick up each little Nixon nugget the embarrassment increased exponentially.  Did I mention I had just made a friend with one of the other soccer moms when this happened in front of both of us?  

Then, he pooped his pants the next day on his way to the bathroom.  We attributed all of this to his long days at school combined with the overwhelming excitement he was experiencing.  Then, we had a few days without an accident until open house night at school!  

McKinley: Hard to believe someone so cute, could make such a mess

My boys were so excited for us to be there, and as usual we were running a little late.  When we got out of the car we noticed that McKinley was in need of a diaper change.  I had 1 wipe in my bag…but I had wipes in the glove box!  They were dried out.  So, we went into the school to change her…Linc hands me the baby, I head into the restroom…no changing table.  Luckily my bag has an awesome built in changing pad, so I laid her on the floor.  As I go to lay her down, I discover poop all over me!  McKinley is covered in it as well.  Panic…I call from the bathroom that Nixon will have to come help me…he is not enough…luckily ONE lady took pity on me, wet my wipes at the sink and helped me with this insane mess while Nixon held McKinley’s hands above her head.  It took forever and a whole lot of ingenuity on all parts to clean this up, but at last it was done and I still had some clothes on, thanks to layers!  McKinley however was wearing an ill-fitting and wrong season dress that was all I had in the diaper bag.  We have still not been to either classroom.  We decide to go to Nixon’s first, since this is his first open house, and is practically shaking with anticipation.  I on the other hand am shaking with nerves and nausea, from carrying a diaper bag bulging with poopy clothes wrapped up in paper towels, it wreaked.  Then, I look down to discover “mud” on the knee of my jeans!  I might pass out.  This school is packed and I stink like poop!  I was not sure I would make it through that night.  I could tell no one wanted to be near me, although I assume most of them blamed my sweet baby girl for the smell.  I had to maneuver very carefully so I would not rub “mud” from my jeans onto others, but eventually we made it out!  Granted, this was not McKinley’s fault in any way, there has just been an insane amount of poop out of place lately!

Nixon

Now for the last bit…I go to pick Nixon up from school along with our friend Tylia.  I notice Nixon walking a bit funny, and looking a bit “lumpy”.  I decided I really wanted to be a patient mommy today and not look like a lunatic yelling at him.  After we dropped off Tylia, I asked Nixon if he would like to talk to me about the poop in his pants.  He very calmly said, “Well, there was someone in the stall, so I HAD to poop my pants.”  He said this as though it were the only logical thing to do.  When I asked him why he did not tell his teacher, he said that he had, but she didn’t do anything.  I calmly told him, “Bull crap you did!”  Turns out he had pooped his pants while in the bathroom after lunch and when he had been missing from the classroom for quite a while one of his teachers went looking for him and heard him in the stall, he told her he was going poop and apparently there was a great deal of flushing and shuffling going on, he eventually came out and although he smelled, they just figured he hadn’t wiped super well.  Can you imagine sitting through another hour of school with a load in your pants?  Again, why is this 5 year old not embarrassed beyond belief???  

There are so many other little pieces and feelings to this story, but I think you get the point.  I truly was not sure I was going to keep this particular child if he kept this up much longer.  We have all heard the saying “s@#$ happens” and I am here to testify that that is true. Forever now, when we drop him off in the morning he gets a “friendly” reminder not to poop his pants.  And, when we pick him up the first thing we say after, “How was your day?” is “Did you poop your pants?” And so I say, “Jared I am so sorry I ever doubted you would turn into a human being with sense.  I love you very much!” 

Has this taught me my lesson that all kids make crazy annoying terrible mistakes and there is no controlling it, just guiding and praying?  Yes.  Will I ever again ignore advice given to me, thinking I know better?  Most likely.